


Danger Zone

by Carenejeans



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Humor, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 23:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13087572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carenejeans/pseuds/Carenejeans
Summary: There's a lot less drama in Methos's life when Duncan isn't around. Methos wants to complain. He has a list.





	Danger Zone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amand_r](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amand_r/gifts).



The cold moonlight made an arena of the old loading dock.

Steel clashing against steel was the only sound as two men fought. Light flashing from their blades reflected in the eyes of the man watching from the shadows. He, too, had a sword, but it was sheathed. His hand rested lightly on the pommel.

One man fell. One man stood, transfixed by unearthly lightning. Two men left, one supporting the other, and disappeared into the night.

 

"Better now?"

"I will be. Come here."

"Mac--"

Duncan clutched at Methos and pulled him close. Methos felt a shiver go through him that had nothing to do with the quickening.

Duncan's eyes were strange, and wild, but there was no death in them.

 

Methos ran his fingers through Duncan's hair, splayed across his chest. Duncan stirred against him. "You know, there's a lot less drama in my life when you're not around."

"So you've said," Duncan said against Methos's skin. He sighed and half rose. "You didn't have to come tonight."

"Right. I could have loafed in comfort in this nice warm apartment, reading a book and waiting for you to come home from the wars."

"I didn't mean that--"

"I know. Anyway, I'm not talking about the challenge. I'm talking about the aftermath."

Duncan rolled away from Methos, frowning. "The aftermath?"

"Here. You." He pointed. "Me, the bed -- look what you've done to it."

Duncan around him. "What's wrong with it?"

"What's wrong with it? That duvet will never be the same. This sheet is torn clear through." He picked up a pillow and punched it, making a flurry of white feathers. "There are feathers in my -- never mind. I'm surprised you didn't actually chew on the carpet."

Duncan raised an eyebrow. "I didn't do all this myself."

"No, but you started it."

"I don't think so."

"Did so," Methos said in a sing-song voice. "It's always like this. You take someone's head, you come home, you fuck me into the mattress. Or, to be fair, sometimes it's me who gets the damned quickening and you who gets fucked into the mattress. And because every week some friend or enemy from your past pops up like a game of immortal whack-a-mole, our mattress takes quite a beating."

"It's not every week," Duncan protested. "And it's not always the reason we, as you say, fuck each other into the mattress. There's more going on between us than that."

"Oh, there's a lot more going on," Methos said bitterly. "I'll get to that. But listen, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan McLeod. I have lived for over fifty centuries. I've been to orgies in Rome and in Medmenham Abbey. I've caroused with poets in absinthe and opium infused debaucheries. I've partied with rock stars. But I have never, until I met you, had so much sex."

Duncan raised his eyebrows. "That's quite an assertion."

"Yeah, well, I can back it up."

Duncan smiled and leaned forward. "I'm all ears."

"You sure you want to hear it?"

"Absolutely. Convince me that you've never had anything but exactly as much sex as you wanted." He considered. "Except when you were a monk." He looked at him sideways. "Maybe."

Methos snorted. "I probably had more sex when I was a monk."

"I wish I'd joined your orders, then. All I remember were cold baths and scourges." Duncan grinned. "But that just proves my point. Even monks want you."

"Oh, well, sure, sex is easy enough to come by," Methos said dismissively. "Monk or whore, wife or slave, it hardly matters. Rutting is fucking is doing the horizontal tango. But it's different with you."

"Different. From a monk or a whore or a wife or a slave? I'm flattered."

"Aren't you going to ask why?"

"I'm afraid to," Duncan said, "and spoil the moment. You'll tell me it's because you like my aftershave or something."

Methos smiled. "No, it's because…" he thought. "You know how you can find people who will bloody you, then give you a hot bath; shave your face or your bits; make love to you secretly in the most secluded of private hideaways or blatantly fuck you in the wings of a theatre; stay with you one night or forever; play doctor; cook you under the table with fabulous feasts; feed you on bread and water; order you to obey or else; follow you into the worst battles; sear you with jealousy; give you the benefit of the doubt; make love to you softly; fuck you to within an inch of your life; try every position in the Kama Sutra; shower you with books of love poetry; fill your bookcases with treatises on the art of war; kiss you chastely and nothing more; be friends forever; be lovers now and then?" He stopped for breath.

"Can you?" Duncan said, looking a bit taken aback.

Methos waved his hand. "Certainly. But, here's the thing -- can you find someone who will do all of those things?"

"And we have -- we have done all of those things?" Duncan frowned. "All of them? Sounds like some of them would cancel each other out."

"That's what I mean by different. And besides," he went on, "we didn't do it alone. Oh, no. We did it with the help of your friends. Amanda, just to start. All you have to do is whisper "threesome" and she appears like Bloody Mary."

Duncan glanced uneasily at his phone. 

Methos caught his glance. "So, you're expecting to hear from her? Why am I not surprised?"

"Maybe," Duncan said, somewhat guiltily.

"But Amanda isn't the only one. Your friend Fitzcairn was a firecracker. And we've spent some memorable nights with Kit O'Brady -- I'd like to see him again soon," he said with enthusiasm. "I don't even know where to start with that gang of Robin Hoods you found somehow -- that Parker woman makes Amanda look like Pollyanna. Or Cory --"

"You've had sex with all my friends?" Duncan was frowning. 

"God, MacLeod. We have had sex with all your friends. Sometimes singly, but most often in threesomes and moresomes."

"I didn't realize," Duncan said, looking somewhat stunned.

"Oh, to be young again," Methos said. "You're wearing me out, Mac."

"Well, have another beer and buck up your strength," Duncan said. "You're going to need it. And -- we'd better clean up this bed."

Methos eyed him. "Why?"

Duncan's phone rang. He smiled. "Hello Amanda."

"Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary," Methos muttered.

* * *

"I still don't believe we have sex as much as you're going on about," Duncan said. He reached blearily for coffee.

"Even after last night? And the evidence of your own… eyes?"

"That's the first time Amanda's been here in -- I can't remember. But it's been a while."

"Four weeks. Three days. Six hours."

"What, you record it all?"

"In a manner of speaking. I've got it all down in my journal. Dates, times, places, flavors -- it's all there. You can read it if you don't believe me."

"Good God, no!" Duncan said quickly. Then he looked thoughtful. "Read it?"

"Or perhaps you'd like to hear me read it?" Methos reached behind him.

"You have it hidden in the couch cushions?" 

"Amanda was going through my sock drawer." Methos thumbed through the pages of the leather-bound book. "Ah, here's a nice representative entry."

_MacLeod followed me into the bathroom stall at Joe's tonight. I almost laughed, but I remembered my manners. Still -- I haven't been fucked in a bathroom stall since the seventies. He thought he'd surprised me, but I saw the glint in his eye as I got up from the table. He's as easy to read as a child's chapter book sometimes. Especially when it comes to sex. I knew he was behind me. I could have locked him out, serve the horny bastard right, but what would be the point? He fucked me with my face mashed against the wall of the stall. Romantic? It wasn't romantic in the least. It was as quick and as nasty as you can get. It was glorious._

"Ring a bell?" Methos said.

Duncan's eyes were glazed over. "Yes."

"Glad you like it. I've got a million of 'em. Here's a nice bit with you and Amanda and a birch switch."

"Oh, the birch. A Christmas gift, wasn't it?"

"It was. Listen."

_MacLeod finally bought a bigger bed, and a much sturdier one. Which is good, because Amanda dropped in. When I say 'dropped in,' I mean breezed in with two armfuls of shopping bags and a cartload of mischief. I thought she'd just been shopping for shoes or something mundane but the bags were full of sex toys. Amazing. She and MacLeod oohed and ahhed over it all like kids over Christmas presents. Which I suppose they were, technically speaking. Amanda had a lot of fun with a festive holiday birch switch. It did my heart -- and of course, my dick -- good to watch her smack MacLeod with it. On the bed with his ass in the air, moaning as the little stings made red crisscrosses on his skin. And Amanda, so serious about it. Except when she laughed. That made Mac erupt with Scottish cursing enough to straighten your curlies._

_I just watched, because, after all, it was all I could do. I was shackled to the chair._

"The gift that goes on giving," Methos said happily. "And here's one about that FBI Agent you're so taken with. The one with the weird partner who sees alien conspiracies in reruns of Mister Rogers' Neighborhood."

"Dana." Duncan said with a smile. Then he frowned. "I don't remember Mulder being along. Or you."

"That's because I got stuck with the weird partner. Did you know he keeps a collection of Bigfoot videotapes by his bed?"

"Yes."

"Oh you did. Well, you could have warned me."

* * *

Duncan left the bakery with a bag full of donut holes, a delicacy that amused Methos. As he stepped into the early morning sunshine, the familiar crawling presence of another immortal touched the base of his spine. The hilt of his sword was instantly in his hand, but the street was busy. The sword stayed in its sheath.

"Who are you?" he murmured, turning in a slow circle, scanning faces, checking doorways, cars, reflections on glass windows. Then he saw him. Leaning idly against a post in front of a florist shop, framed by a riot of flowers, looking for all the world like a jolly fat Puck.

"Kent." It came out an exasperated snarl, which startled a passing young woman, who gave him a wider berth. 

The other immortal couldn't have heard him, but he raised his hand in a friendly greeting.

Duncan started across the street, hand still on the hilt of his sword, but the man grinned, and, again like a mischievous Puck, vanished in the bright morning light. Duncan darted this way, charged that way, realized he was drawing the concerned attention of passers-by, and forced himself to stand still, take a breath, calm himself. Save for the spectacle he himself had made, the street was serene. Then -- there he was. Standing in a cloud of jasmine. He winked and faded down a side street. Duncan followed.

* * *

"That was strangely… cheerful," Methos said. 

"Yeah," Duncan said. "He was a cheerful man. Mad of course. But cheerful."

"I feel like I've been showered with fairy dust or something."

"I know what you mean." Duncan shivered. "I don't suppose he could actually have been…"

"Fae?" Methos said the word MacLeod seemed unwilling to utter. The old superstitions ran deep, apparently. "Well, you never know, do you? He did have those violet eyes." 

Duncan shuddered. "Forget about him," he said, running his hand down Methos's body. 

Methos trapped Duncan's hand in his. "Fine, but we need to talk."

Duncan frowned. "Talk? Now?"

"Yes," said Methos. "About Amanda."

Duncan groaned. "I didn't invite her."

"No, I know, that's just it. She appears, and we love her for it."

"But?"

Methos sighed. "She's dangerous, MacLeod."

"To us? How is Amanda dangerous?"

"Can you hear yourself talk? How is Amanda _not_ dangerous?"

"All right," Duncan allowed. "She does have a knack for getting into trouble."

"A knack? She has a genius for it. But that's not what I'm talking about."

"Like the time she planted some of her loot on my and got me jailed as a jewel thief."

"No, I'm talking about--"

"Which, come to think of it, was sort of the flip side of the time she decamped with the Baron's jewels and left me holding the bag."

"No, MacLeod, I mean--"

"Then there was the time I got an arrow in my back helping her escape from the Sultan after she tried to steal his treasure."

"Ouch. But no, Mac, I just --"

"And the time she let Kalas out of prison."

Methos winced. "She caused a world of trouble there. But--"

"Or the time --"

"All right, you've made your point, but I'm talking about the way she," Methos searched for the right word. "She _meddles_."

Duncan looked like he had a long list of grievances he'd like to unburden, but he stopped short. "Meddles?"

"Meddles. In my business. Our business. That should be between _us_."

"Between us?"

"Is there an echo in here? Think, MacLeod. What happened last time we had an argument? I mean a serious one."

Duncan was quiet for a moment. "Serious like Bordeaux?"

"Serious like Bordeaux."

"We drifted apart and then we… we got back together." Duncan looked thoughtful.

"And how did we get back together?"

"Well, we just, oh. Right."

"Amanda."

"Amanda," Duncan agreed. 

"You see my point?"

"Not exactly," Duncan said. "I mean, she brought us together. That's not bad, is it?"

Methos sighed.

"It's not that it's _bad,_ but just once, MacLeod, I'd like to have a falling out with you without having to look behind me to see if Amanda was about to attack me in a corset. Amanda in a corset, smart ass," he added as Duncan opened his mouth.

"And forget falling out," Methos continued. "How do you think we got together? Do you really think one of us made the first move?"

"Wasn't it? I thought it was you."

"I made the first move on _you_. Amanda made the first move on _me_. If you get my drift."

"She's been busier that I realized," Duncan said. "I thought she just… liked threesomes."

Methos laughed. "I'm not saying she doesn't."

Duncan's phone rang. He picked it up and looked at the screen. "Speak of the devil -- and she appears," he said wryly.

Methos groaned.

* * *

Duncan stepped from the lift just as his phone rang. Methos looked up from his book, caught the look on his face, and leaned back, watching him.

"Duncan. Yeah, Joe. Yes. I've seen him. Thanks. I will."

"Will what?" Methos said as Duncan dropped the phone in his pocket.

Duncan's face twisted into a bitter smile. "Be careful."

"One of your old friends in town?"

"Seems so."

Methos sighed. "God forbid we have a week go by in peace." He raised his coffee cup. "Give me a refill, will you? Did you get my donut holes this time?"

* * *

"I've still got buzzing in my ears from that one," Methos said.

"Well, you shouldn't have interfered."

"I didn't interfere," Methos protested. "I just… helped things along."

"You tried to shoot him in the back," Duncan said, toweling his hair. They were both damp and pink from a long shower. "Too bad you only winged him."

Methos rubbed his arm where the immortal had landed a blow with his sword. "Too bad is right."

"If you'd managed to shoot him dead, we'd be out there again tonight."

"Who do you mean 'we'?" Methos said. "I wash my hands of you and your boy scouts honor."

"Yeah, right. You'd have been there, interfering _again_. Are you going to stand there forever? Your dick's gonna shrivel from the cold." Duncan pulled his jeans up and buttoned them over his own cock, which was starting to get hard again. Commando. Methos approved. 

"It's not cold in here. My dick is fine."

Duncan waggled his eyebrows. "It's more than fine."

"Thank you."

"Hmph. Be that way. "Where's my hairbrush?"

Methos sat down abruptly and put his face in his hands.

"What's the matter with you?" Duncan had found his hairbrush and was giving the tips of his damp mane short stiff strokes.

Methos's shoulders shook.

"Care to share the joke with the class?"

Methos sprawled on the couch and laughed. 

"What?" Duncan sat down next to him.

"Props, MacLeod." Methos nudged a stack of books with his bare foot. "Sex toys."

Duncan pushed the books out of the reach of Methos's toes. "Conan Doyle? He'd be surprised to hear it."

"I've learned to look at common household objects with new eyes," Methos said. "Everything starts to look suggestive. Beyond your sausages and your fish forks, I mean."

"Fish forks?"

"Clothes, for instance. There's sex clothing, naturally, but who would have thought a plain white sweater could be so… enticing. Where is it, anyway?"

"In the drawer there."

"Put it on."

"Is that an order?"

"If you like."

Duncan pulled the sweater over his head, slightly mussing his hair in the process. Methos licked his lips.

"Anything else?" Duncan smirked.

Methos looked him over. Bare feet, faded jeans, comfortably worn in enticing creases, the glorious sweater riding up over his belly button. 

"Just undo the top button."

Duncan undid the top button of his jeans and leaned back in the chair, crossing his feet and wiggling his toes.

"That's, uh, that's good. Where was I?"

"Taking a perverted view of everyday objects."

"The word is _Erotic,_ MacLeod."

"Erotic, whatever. Continue."

"Beer bottles, an ugly twenty-dollar couch, vinyl LPs," he made a movement like throwing a frisbee, "cookware -- God, you in an apron wielding a wooden spoon -- that big desk you have in the dojo, croquet mallets, rose pillows, paintbrushes and large jars of chocolate sauce."

Duncan smiled.

"The usual phallic objects," Methos waved a hand. "Bananas and baguettes, carrots and candles. Garden hoses." He stopped, staring into space.

"You've gone cross-eyed," Duncan said.

"Sorry. The garden hose inspired me to lewd thoughts. Let's see. Swords. Not many people consider sword-fighting to be foreplay. Not even among our kind. And yet -- well, you know how it is, you've got a nice dojo and a katana that's a work of art and it sort of goes on from there." He thought for a moment. "I can't look at ladders, shoelaces, seeds, umbrellas, or strings of Christmas lights the way I used to. And yes, even books -- did you know that when I read a book you've read and come across a dog-eared page, I get a little tingle, right here?"

Duncan's smile grew wider.

"Beer bottles… did I say that already?" Methos sadly contemplated the empty one in his hand. Scotch bottles. Rum. Tequila. Forget bottles. It's what they contain that stirs me up. Hooch. The grape and the grain. Wassail, eggnog and alcoholic oatmeal. That reminds me." He stopped.

Duncan was stretched out on the floor. "Remind you of what?"

"Another thing. That makes it dangerous to be around you."

"You can't blame me for a five-thousand-year alcohol habit," Duncan said. "Didn't you invent it?"

"Very funny," Methos said. "Booze. And food. And sex."

Duncan smiled. "Good things come in threes."

"More like 'everything comes with sex,'" Methos grumbled. "We start out with dinner nicely laid out on the table, and end up with it all over me."

"I can't help your table manners," Duncan said. He pushed himself up off the floor and padded towards the kitchen. "You're making me hungry."

Methos followed. "It's yours we're talking about! I can't count the sweaters you've ruined. I've been spattered and splattered with Carciofi, Pad Thai, Enchiladas Suizas, and your country's signature horror."

"It's no worse than your ancient anemones," Duncan said mildly.

"Honey. Pomegranates. Peanut butter and jelly. And chocolate syrup -- a methos-sicle, that’s me, cherries and whipped cream optional."

Duncan frowned. "Peanut butter and jelly?"

"Yes, MacLeod, peanut butter and jelly. Jam, rather. Raspberry to be exact. Don't you remember?"

"No," Duncan's brows lowered. "Perhaps it was someone else you were with."

"It was you, Highlander," Methos said. " _Perhaps_ you don't remember because you drank half a bottle of Trader Joe's single malt before you thought of it."

"Trader Joe's?" Duncan said. "Couldn'a been me!"

"It was you. You thought it was hilarious." Methos tilted his head. "It was actually pretty good. The Rum of the Gods, on the other hand…"

"Peanut butter," Duncan said dangerously. "Not me." He leaned took a menacing step towards Methos.

"Skippy," Methos said, edging around the counter.

"Is that the walloper's name?" Duncan thundered, advancing on Methos, who backed up towards the couch, grinning. 

"Or maybe it was Peter Pan."

"Ach, you!" Duncan sat down and knuckled his eyes.

Methos considered. "You're right, now that I think of it. I could possibly have mis-remembered."

"Oh?" Duncan said without lifting his head.

"Yes, in fact. It was strawberry jam."

Duncan stood. He said, very quietly. "I don't care what kind of jam it was. I don't care who it was. You can do whatever you want with your… Skippy. I'm not your keeper. " 

"Why, Duncan my heart, I do believe you're jealous. Such a glowering sullen face, such pouty lips. Remind me to bring up peanut butter and jelly more often."

Duncan didn't speak to him for the rest of the evening. But he kept giving Methos dark, darting looks. Finally, Methos brought out one of Duncan's second-best single malts. Duncan took it grudgingly, but drank. 

After about half the bottle was gone, and Duncan had started singing, Methos hurried into the kitchen. 

Duncan's eyes lit up at the sight of the two jars and the big rubber spatula.

"Ah," said Methos, "Now you remember."

* * *

"I don't know who he is, Joe." Duncan banged his empty glass on the table.

Joe refilled it. "According to his watcher, he's been obsessed with you for a while."

"Mr. Popularity," Methos said sourly. "The feel-good hit of the summer."

Joe shot him a look, then ignored him.

Duncan shrugged. "I've got no quarrel with him."

"Well he's got some sort of beef with you," Joe said. "So just watch your back."

"Da Big Bomb-diggity," Methos said. "His sword brings all the boys into the yard."

Duncan looked at him as if hoping for some kind of translation. Getting none, he turned back to Joe. "Must be a head hunter. Nothing to do with me, but I'll have to meet him anyway."

"Hot blade," Methos said. "Challenge magnet."

"What are you, some kind of cut-rate Roget's?" Joe said.

"L337," Methos said, pronouncing it and fingerspelling it at the same time. "Reet petite and gone." He held out his glass.

"I think you've had enough, buddy."

"Let's get you home," Duncan said.

Methos stood up, swaying slightly. "Home, Jeeves! But first," he said to Joe confidingly. "We have to see a man about a sword."

* * *

"I have a _headache,_ MacLeod."

Duncan frowned. "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong? What's wrong? You just chopped off a man's head and got pounded into the pavement by unearthly lightning carrying the trapped quickenings of hundreds, if not thousands of people from everywhere and everywhen and then you come at me like a bitch in heat and you ask me what's wrong! It's all wrong!" He turned his back on Duncan.

"How is it different from other times?" Duncan massaged his shoulders, and despite himself, Methos relaxed. "It's always different now. After Bordeaux."

"Yes," Duncan agreed. "It is."

"I get some of it. Every time. Even if I'm not there when it happens. I could be hundreds of miles away and… zzzzap."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"That double quickening at Bordeaux has caused me all sorts of problems, Mac. Sexual. Problems." He said the words with heavy emphasis.

"Well, me too…" Duncan said.

"Oh yeah? Did it give you lurid, painfully detailed, erotic nightmares? About _Kronos?_ " Methos almost whispered the name, and glanced around the loft, as if Kronos might emerge from behind the shelving.

Duncan frowned. "Actually--"

"And it's like we have this -- this bond, as if our two hearts are chained together -- with an iron lock on it. Not to mention our dicks. It's worse than a Vulcan mind-meld, or, I don't know, being tuned to the same Bat-channel. It's like a fucking _soul bond,_ Mac. I can't break it. I've tried."

"Why would you--"

"And on top of all of that, I think I might be pregnant."

"What?"

Methos sprawled on the couch. "Kidding. Through I've had mysterious cravings for thin-crust barbecued chicken pizza with ranch dressing."

Duncan grimaced and shook his head.

* * *

"Your phone is ringing." 

"I hear it," Duncan said. "Don't stop."

The call went to voice mail.

Duncan hung over the edge of the bed and pawed through his clothes on the floor for his phone. It was much later. 

"Mac? Joe here. Don't know if you need to worry, but there's another immortal in town. Name of Sebastiano Castro Delacruz. Last known whereabouts Rio. Looks like he could have a connection with Kent. Call me if you need more."

* * *

"Stop being dramatic."

Methos had been working himself up into a good rant, about some people who couldn't go more than three days, three, without haring off to a back-alley brawl with a stranger, a _stranger_ , not even someone who had the good manners to be an _enemy_ , just some idiot with a sword, fight to the death, blah blah blah quickening, why not share a little of the pain with me while you're at it, that fucking quickening had Watchers from three counties running around in the shadows with body bags, at least I didn't have to clean it up and throw my back out again, and goddamn it get your hand off my butt, but Duncan's words deflated him. 

"Fine."

"Here, have a drink."

"I don't want a drink. Do you ever wonder, MacLeod, whether we drink too much?"

"So? It's not like it's going to hurt us," Duncan said reasonably.

"Too bad. I could stand to drink myself to death right now. Or into a stupor. Or a friendly black-out. Amnesia, that's the ticket." He thought for a moment. "And that's another drawback to hanging out with you."

"You've never had amnesia. Have you?"

"Not me. Oh no. I'm always the one with my wits intact, chasing after you while you run around, crying, "who _am_ I?"

Duncan gave him a dark look.

"Remember the time you had amnesia and took up magic?"

"No. Was that when I got a knife to the brain?"

"Oh, God. Don't remind me. "No this was… a bad quickening, I think."

"I don't recall."

"You thought you were a professional magician -- actually, you _were_ a magician, that's what was so funny. We had the devil of a time, trying to keep you from haring off to Magic Live. Amanda had to be your assistant."

"Well, naturally. She's good."

"You weren't bad either. Joe finally let you do a few shows. He was ready to sign you on regularly, just to keep you out of trouble, but then you remembered you were Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod and not The Awesome Immie D."

"You're making this up."

"Ask Joe! Ask Amanda. She probably still has that little red sequined number. And the satin cape." Methos's eyes grew dreamy. " Amanda's closet," Duncan said dryly.

Methos shook himself. "Good thing it only lasted a week. You also thought I was your boy toy."

Duncan looked smug. "Aren't you my boy toy?"

"You were quite… dictatorial."

"That I wish I could remember. Give me a hint?"

"A hint?" Methos smirked. "Can you say, _Sir_?"

Duncan's eyebrows rose. "I made you _Sir_ me? That's … dictatorial."

" _Oh_ , yes."

There was a silence. Their eyes met for a long moment. Duncan looked down. Methos rolled his eyes. Duncan shook himself, squared his shoulders, looked Methos straight in the eye and leaned in close.  
" _Oh_ , yes _what_?" Duncan's voice was soft, but there was steel underneath.

Methos smiled. "Oh, yes, _Sir_."

* * *

"Do we have to go through this drill again?" Methos complained. "Let's not and say we did, okay?"

"It's not your fight--" Duncan said stoutly.

"It's mine, I can fight my own battles, don't interfere, blah blah blah," Methos said.

"Right," Duncan said. "Stay here."

"What am I, a dog, 'stay'?"

"Then stay out of my way," Duncan said.

"Fine. And I'll only use this," he drew his sword and had its blade against Duncan's neck before he could react, "in case of revenge. In which case, you'll have nothing to say about it."

The two men glared at each other. Then suddenly Duncan laughed. "Don't count on it, old man. I might have something to say about it even after I'm dead."

"It figures," Methos said, sheathing his sword. "It would be just my luck to have your shade hanging around to the end of my days."

"I'll hang around to the end of your days, and _without_ dying," Duncan said. 

"I'll hold you to that, Highlander."

* * *

"Well, that was a lot of nothing," Methos said, throwing his sword behind Duncan's bed. "Not that I'm complaining."

"He's still out there," Duncan reminded him.

"Christ. And he'll be back. He said so. He stood there like a Hollywood Governor and said 'Ah'll be back.' Idiot! Does he know who you are?"

Duncan grinned. "Well, I did tell him."

"I should have shot him. Not that it would have done any good, but it would have made me feel better. Bang! Hasta la vista, baby!"

"Not that you're complaining," Duncan said.

"Oh well, forget him. For now anyway," he added darkly. "Hand me a beer -- no, hand me a scotch. No, hand me the tequila. Just give me the bottle."

* * *

"And then there's the _really weird_ stuff." Methos said, using the half-empty tequila bottle as a pointer. "The stuff that makes me feel like I'm back on the set of _Plan 9 from Outer Space_."

Duncan sighed.

"Granted, the life we lead is weird in general. But I've had thousands of years to get used to people jumping out of the scenery with swords, and I've gotten used to quickenings, though hanging around you has brought me some new data. And I'm used to various degrees of, shall we say, eccentricity in some of the immortals I meet. But." He stopped and gazed at the windowsill. 

Duncan waited. There was nothing on the windowsill but a wilted flower in a pot. "But," Duncan prompted.

"But sex pollen!" Methos exploded. "In all my centuries I'd never heard of such a thing. And of course, Amanda had to be the one to get the first faceful of it, then drag me along to look at the damn thing. It looked less like a plant than some kind of nightmare cross between a jellyfish and the grill of a '59 Buick."

"And then you both came and dragged me to see it," Duncan said mildly. 

"Well, we were having fun," Methos said. "I sometimes miss that plant. Too bad Amanda overwatered it."

Duncan smiled. 

"But that was at least… terrestrial. Probably came from somewhere remote and exotic. Santa Barbara or somewhere."

"Sounds about right. Amanda had been down there for a weekend, I think."

"But those, those _aliens_ ," Methos continued. "Which looked nothing like those little grey men you see in the movies. These were brawnier. Oilier. And a lot meaner. Pointing those quantum bazookas or whatever they were at us and yelling 'fuck! Or die!'"

Duncan looked skeptical. "Sounds like too much sci-fi channel and late-night Welsh rarebit to me."

"Perverts," Methos continued, ignoring him. "They claimed to be scientists gathering data. Fat chance. They were just perverts. Intergalactic Perverts! You, of course, went right along with it."

"And why wouldn't I? Fuck you or die seems about right."

"You'd die if you couldn't fuck me?" Methos was diverted from his story.

"Probably."

"Romantic," Methos sighed. "You're right, it had to have been a dream. Intergalactic sex perverts don't exist."

"That we know of," Duncan said diplomatically. 

"Or maybe you don't remember because… because they did something to your brain. Mind control."

"I'm not under any kind of mind control," Duncan said.

"How can you tell?"

"Because I _can_ still resist your charms without dying." He paused. "At least not immediately."

"Hah."

"Your alien perverts were a dream, Methos."

"Just like the gingerbread men, I suppose," Methos muttered to himself.

"Gingerbread men?"

"Did I say that out loud? Never mind. I have no idea what you're talking about. Is that your phone?"

Duncan gave him a strange look, but just shook his head and reached for his phone.

"Don't tell me it's--"

"Amanda," Duncan said.

* * *

_"I'll be back." Like hell, you little squirt_ , Methos thought. His fingers tightened on his gun. In readiness. Just in case.

Not that he really believed he'd need it, except perhaps to relieve his own feelings. He watched the fight, part of him appreciating the violent grace of their brutal dance. He was an immortal; a fight to the death was exhilarating, it called to the dark places in his human soul, but even more it called to the darker center of his immortal heart. Duncan and the other immortal -- Methos had written the name down in his journal and promptly forgot it -- thrust and spun and slashed at each other, back and forth among the skeletal remains of what had once been a factory. The stranger bore down on Duncan, and Methos let the gun slide out of his pocket. Surprisingly, for such an idiot, the immortal almost matched Duncan in skill.

Almost. Duncan had determination and skill, oh yes -- but he had something else, something that Methos sometimes thought of grandly as destiny, and sometimes more down-to-earth, as 'heart.' Duncan rallied, the other man fell, and a split second later, after the peculiar soundless, empty moment between the death and the quickening, the bright and terrible lightning ripped through the moonlight and Duncan whirled and stumbled as it struck him again and again. 

Methos went to his friend and helped him to his feet. Wordlessly, Duncan clutched at him and pulled him closer. 

His eyes were wild, but there was no death in them. When Methos kissed him he could feel the energy of the quickening spark between them.

* * *

"Feel better?" 

Methos looked up at Duncan with pleasure. Duncan, naked, sat in his lap. Or where his lap would be if he were sitting up. Methos settled deeper into the pillows.

"Hm."

"I hope you got it all off your chest," Duncan said. 

"Hm."

"Have you?"

"No."

"What more could there possibly be?"

"Hm."

"Fine," Duncan said. "As it happens, I have a bone or two to pick with you."

Methos smiled contentedly. It was growing dark in the loft, except for a soft bolt of moonlight that touched MacLeod and made him look like an angel. A sweaty, mulish, exasperating angel, and damn the moon that made a halo of his tangled hair.

"Is that right. Well, do go on."

"I plan to." Duncan leaned down to give him a swift kiss on the nose. "But first--"

Duncan's phone rang.

"Don't answer that," Methos said. 

"I wasn't planning to," Duncan said. "Come here."

Methos's phone rang.

"I don't believe this," Methos said.

Duncan sighed. "Guess we'd better look. Since the mood's been ruined anyway."

The two of them sat back-to-back, naked and sex-tousled, thumbing their phones.

"It's Joe," Duncan said.

"I've got Amanda," Methos said.

"There's an immortal in town looking for me."

"You don't say? Multiple choice, Mac: A, Amanda is bored, B, horny, or C, needs a favor."

"All of the above?"

Methos tossed his phone to the end of the bed. It bounced and clattered on the floor. "Do you have a nice little patch of holy ground staked out somewhere -- a place nobody knows about?"

Duncan hesitated. "Yeah," he said finally.

"Good boy. Pack your bags. Hang out your Gone Fishing sign. We are," he declared grandly, "going on the lam."

* * *

"Peace at last," Methos said, taking in the scenery along the side of the road. Almond orchards fanning out in rows for miles. "Nobody will find us here. A good, long, bucolic rest, that's what we need."

"Some good old R&R," Duncan agreed.

"Oh, no," Methos said. "No recreation. None. Whatsoever. You hear me, Highlander?"

"Recuperation, Methos," Duncan said. "Rest and recuperation."

"Your hideout have any special amenities? A porch needing painting? A dungeon in the basement?"

"Rest and Relaxation, okay?" Duncan was grinning. "The most exercise you'll get is opening a beer bottle.

"Rock and Roll!" Methos sang. A moment later, he grinned and looked sideways at Duncan." Wasn't there something you wanted to get off your chest? Something for the Complaints Department?"

"There was."

"And?"

Duncan put his sunglasses on and settled back in his seat. "Another time. Turn here."

Methos turned into a narrow lane between the almond trees. 

"You're a secretive one," he complained.

Duncan just smiled.

 _And a dangerous one._ Methos thought. He couldn't help but smile in return. 

Maybe just a _little_ recreation wouldn't hurt.

_\- End -_

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the tropes in this story are general fanfiction or Highlander tropes. But if you think you recognize a phrase, a line, or an idea from one of your own stories, you are correct!


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